beautiful she was.
They would anyway, he decided. Carolee was nine and no one was likely to notice her—no matter what kind of dress she wore—not with his mother about. She was pretty enough, he guessed, and looked like a sister was supposed to look. All right, but nothing special.
There was a little trouble late in the afternoon. Howie’s father was taking extra stock to market and had three geldings and a mare in the pens at the back of the barge. Two of the bucks had been fixed for some time and were placid enough. The third, though, hadn’t been out of action more than a few weeks. He was a short, stocky creature with a barrel chest and thick arms. He’d been a good stud, and easy going—,but he was nothing but trouble now.
Howie knew that happened sometimes. And when a stud didn’t take to fixing, he was good for meat and nothing more. Which was why he was going to market along with the older geldings. Those two had been fattened up during the winter and would bring a fair price, or make for good trade.
The mare was something else again. She was good stock, barely past sixteen, and had calved three times in four years. Howie’s father didn’t want to let her go, but there was bad blood in her somewhere. She was smart as a tack and had to be watched all the time.
When they heard the commotion in the pens, Howie and his mother and Carolee all looked at Papa. Papa shook his head and muttered something under his breath. He started to raise himself up, then stopped and looked straight at Howie.
Howie almost knew what was coming and felt the hairs on his neck rise.
“Listen,” Papa said easily, like it was an everyday thing, “whyn’t you run on back and quiet her down, son?”
Howie wanted to jump up and down, but he checked himself quickly. That’s what a kid would do. Instead, he looked as serious as he could manage, and just said, “Yes- sir, I’ll do that, Papa.”
Papa unlooped the big stock whip from his shoulder and Howie ambled casually back to the pens. Behind him, he heard his mother say “
“It’s all right, Ev,” said Papa, “the boy’s twelve and able enough…”
Howie looked straight ahead, grinning to himself.
The two old geldings squatted in their pens, not looking at anything. Howie walked out on the rampway overhead and the newly fixed buck glared up at him and made noises in his throat. Howie touched the coiled whip on his shoulder, like he’d seen his father do. The buck stepped away, turning his attention back to the mare. She’d gotten him all worked up, plain enough. And purely on purpose, too, Howie figured. The buck stood in the middle of his pen, shaking his head from side to side. His chest heaved. He stared straight at the mare, like there was something he wanted to understand, but couldn’t.
The mare looked up at Howie and grinned out of vacant blue eyes. She saw the whip, but ignored it.
“Just get on back and sit down,” Howie told her.
She giggled and looked at the buck. Her hair was wheat- colored, thick and matted. It fell in tangles down her broad back, darkened by the sun.
“Go on, now!” Howie warned. Stock couldn’t tell what you were saying, but they were good enough at reading tones. Only this one just plain didn’t care. She turned and stood square in front of her pen, as close to the buck as she could get. Watching the buck, she squeezed her breasts and jiggled them purposefully, holding the brown nipples in her fingers.
A low growl stuck in the buck’s throat and he threw himself against his bars. The mare grinned, spread her legs, and put one hand between them. Howie flicked the-whip along her back and she skipped away. Again, he laid the leather easily over her shoulder, snapping it lightly, so there was more noise than damage. A back full of welts told a clear story to a buyer.
The mare quieted, glanced once more at the buck, and went to the back of her pen to urinate. The recently gelded buck looked up blankly at Howie, touching the spot between his legs where the red scar was still healing. Howie watched them a moment longer, then walked back up to the bow. His father took the whip without comment, but Carolee stared at him, wide-eyed.
Oh, Lordee, Howie thought darkly, if she says anything I’ll fair drown her right here, sister or no sister!
Chapter Two
It was near ten at night when the barge bumped up against the docks at Bluevale and an hour or more after that before Howie finally got to bed. The time didn’t matter. He couldn’t have slept, no matter what. His eyes popped open every time they closed and his head was full of wonders.
The inn was near the river, just on the edge of town, so there wasn’t much to see. A little, though, was plenty for Howie. One glimpse toward the square, lit bright as day. Lordee,’ more lanterns than you could count, all strung out on wires across the street! Blues, reds, greens, yellows and what all! And people, still up and about. Fiddle music. And laughing.
Somehow that seemed more peculiar than anything. He couldn’t remember hearing that many people laughing at one time.
“Couldn’t we stop? Just a minute? Just
Papa grinned and laid a big hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get plenty of fair come morning, boy.” He gave Howie a broad wink. “Does sound like they’re having fun, don’t it, now?”
His mother, with Carolee asleep on her shoulder, hurried along. “I reckon fun’s what you make it out to be,” she said coolly.
“They’re just feeling their oats and having a good time,” Papa told her. “That’s what a fair’s all about, Ev.”
His mother didn’t answer. But he could hear them whispering long after they went to bed. They spoke too softly for anyone to listen, though, for the inn was crowded, and there were twenty or so travelers bunked in the big raftered room.
“I suppose you’re going to see it,” Papa muttered darkly, “come hell or high water.” He shook his head and dug into his pocket for coppers. For a long moment, he brooded over the pile of coins. Like they were covered with bugs or something, thought Howie, and grinned. He loved Papa to act mad when he really wasn’t.
When he was angry was something else. Papa was a big man, so tall he had to duck to get in most places, and sometimes his broad shoulders scraped both sides of the door. His face was dark from the sun, his long hair a shock of yellow, and his eyes nearly too light to be blue. He and Howie’s mother looked like they’d been born on opposite sides of the world. In truth, though, they’d both been raised less than ten miles apart.
Papa reached down and raised Carolee high in the air. “Well, honey, you want to see it too, I reckon?”
Howie’s mother showed concern. “Milo, I don’t know…”
“Papa-papa-papa-papa!” shrieked Carolee. Her little legs pumped air.
Howie glared at Carolee, then studied the sign above the door. It was painted on cloth in big red letters and nailed to the store front:
SEE THE ANSHINT NIGGER
IN HERE. RIL AS LIFE!
“Papa. I gotta take
“Howie!” frowned his mother, “is that nice, now?”
Tears started in Carolee’s eyes, which were big and dark like her mother’s.
“Howie. Men take care of women.”
Howie reddened. Papa wasn’t mad-sounding at all, and that made it worse. He looked down at his feet. Papa
